The city lights twinkled like scattered stardust—diamonds brushed against a velvet night. Skyscrapers stood tall, crowned in neon halos, their reflections trembling across the glassy windows of passing cars. Billboards flashed like sirens calling the lost, the lonely, and the desperate.
A perfect illusion to distract people from life's ugliness. An illusion I desperately clung to.
"There you are, Ly."
I turned, the sound of Benjie's voice a momentary reprieve from the crushing weight of my reality. His face, usually so open and friendly, was etched with concern as his eyes met mine. He always saw too much, felt too much. It was a vulnerability I both cherished and resented.
"Something wrong?" he asked, stepping closer, his voice a low murmur against the city's hum.
I hesitated, the cold wind a sharp bite against my cheek. "Why?" The word was barely audible, a whisper lost in the night.
He closed the distance between us, his eyes dark and searching, as if trying to unravel the secrets I desperately tried to conceal. "I heard what your stepmother did to you, Lysandra."
The words were like a physical blow, a violation of the carefully constructed walls I had built around myself. My throat tightened, and I instinctively recoiled, the truth too heavy, too shameful to speak aloud. Silence was my shield, my sanctuary.
"Lysandra." My name rolled from his tongue—firm, heavy, unyielding. It was a plea, an invitation to confide, to break down the barriers I had erected. But I couldn't. Not yet. Not ever.
"I'll go, Benj," I said softly, forcing a smile that felt brittle and false. "Thanks for the company." I turned away, unable to bear the weight of his gaze, the unspoken empathy that threatened to shatter my carefully maintained composure.
He didn't stop me. Maybe he sensed the darkness that clung to me, the abyss that threatened to swallow me whole. Or maybe he simply understood that there were some wounds that couldn't be healed, some burdens that had to be carried alone.
As I walked away, the lights blurred into streaks of color, the city's vibrant energy mocking my own internal desolation. I was a ghost, a shadow moving through a world that felt increasingly alien.
Home awaited—if you could call the Moore estate home. To me, it was a cage gilded with lies and cruelty, a prison where I was both captive and jailer. A place where I was nothing.
It was still dark when Caroline's voice, sharp as a shard of glass, sliced through the morning silence.
"You're awake. Prepare breakfast."
Her tone was pure venom, a daily reminder of my subservient role in her twisted game. It wasn't a request, it was a command, delivered with the chilling certainty of someone who knew they held all the power.
I met her gaze, unflinching, refusing to show any sign of weakness, any hint of the fear that gnawed at me from the inside. "I am not your maid, Caroline." The words were a defiance, a small act of rebellion against the suffocating control she exerted.
Her thin smile faltered, but only for a moment. Her eyes, cold and calculating, narrowed with a predatory glint. "You live under my husband's roof, Lysandra. You will do as you're told. Unless you want to find yourself out on the street." The threat hung in the air, unspoken but clear.
Weakness is death if you choose it—my mother's voice whispered in the corners of my mind. It was a mantra, a survival tactic learned from a woman who had fought her own battles against overwhelming odds.
By the time breakfast was served, the air was thick with unspoken tension, a palpable sense of dread that settled over the dining room like a shroud. Ella, my father's daughter with Caroline, tapped her nails against the table like a spoiled queen waiting for applause, her eyes constantly scrutinizing me, searching for any imperfection, any vulnerability she could exploit. She was a miniature version of her mother, a cruel and calculating creature who reveled in my misery.
"Caroline, clean my room later, okay?" she said sweetly, her words dripping with saccharine mockery, her gaze deliberately fixed on me, daring me to challenge her.
I looked up, my eyes narrowing, a surge of anger momentarily eclipsing the fear. "That's your room, Ella. Learn to clean it yourself. I am not your servant." The words were a challenge, a direct defiance of the established order.
Her expression darkened, lips curling into disdain. Caroline's eyes narrowed, and I knew a storm was coming. I braced myself, waiting for the inevitable explosion, the verbal assault that would leave me bruised and battered, but never broken.
Then, it happened. The catalyst that would shatter the fragile peace, the event that would set in motion a chain of events that would forever alter the course of my life.
Nely, our elderly housekeeper, shuffled into the dining room, her hands trembling with age and exhaustion. She was a kind soul, a silent observer of the drama that unfolded within the walls of the Moore estate. She carried a tray laden with juice glasses, her steps unsteady, her movements hesitant.
Her hand slipped, a sudden, uncontrollable tremor, and the tray tilted precariously. The glasses tumbled in slow motion, a chaotic ballet of glass and liquid, before crashing onto Ella's lap, the sound echoing in the silent room like a gunshot. Juice splattered like blood across white silk, staining the pristine fabric with a crimson tide.
Ella shrieked, a high-pitched, piercing sound that grated on my nerves. Rage contorted her pretty face, transforming her into a grotesque caricature of her mother. "You useless old woman!" she screamed, her voice filled with venomous fury. She raised her hand, ready to strike Nely, to unleash her pent-up anger on the helpless housekeeper.
But before her hand could connect, I reacted, my movements swift and decisive. I caught her wrist mid-air, my grip surprisingly strong, my fingers digging into her flesh. My voice was ice, a chilling contrast to the fire that burned within me. "Touch her, and you'll regret it." The words were a promise, a threat delivered with deadly calm.
Caroline stood abruptly, her face contorted with rage, her eyes blazing with fury. "Lysandra! How dare you interfere? Ella is your sister!"
"Sister?" I hissed, my voice dripping with sarcasm, the word leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. "Then maybe she should start acting like one."
Caroline shoved Nely, sending her stumbling backwards into the shattered glass. The old woman gasped, a sharp intake of breath, as she fell to her knees, blood seeping from her palm, her face etched with pain and terror. The sight of her suffering, the injustice of it all, snapped something within me.
That was it. The breaking point. The moment when I could no longer suppress the anger, the resentment, the years of pent-up frustration.
My hand moved before I could even think, driven by instinct, by a primal urge to protect the innocent. A sharp slap cracked through the air, landing across Caroline's face, the sound echoing in the silent room like a thunderclap.
"How dare you push her!" I shouted, trembling with fury, my voice shaking with the force of my emotions. The slap was more than just a physical act of violence; it was a declaration of war, a challenge to the established order.
A loud voice boomed from the living room, silencing the chaos, shattering the fragile peace that remained. "What in God's name is going on here?!"
My father, Ricky Brooke, strode into the dining room, his face a mask of thunderous rage. The man who used to tuck me in at night, who used to tell me stories and kiss my forehead, was now a stranger, a distant figure consumed by ambition and greed.
He saw Caroline on the floor, her face flushed with anger, and didn't hesitate. His eyes locked on me, his expression hardening with a cold, unforgiving fury. His palm raised, ready to strike me, to punish me for daring to defy him.
I didn't flinch. I didn't cower. I met his gaze head-on, my own eyes burning with defiance. I had nothing left to lose.
I caught his wrist midair, my grip surprisingly strong, fueled by adrenaline and years of suppressed anger. My voice dropped low, deadly calm, a stark contrast to the turmoil raging within me. "Don't. Try. Me. Dad." The words were a warning, a challenge, and a plea all rolled into one.
His eyes flickered, a momentary flicker of recognition, a glimpse of the child he had once loved, before the darkness consumed him. But then, the flicker was gone, replaced by the cold, calculating gaze of a man who had sacrificed everything for power.
I turned to Caroline and Ella, my gaze sweeping over them with disdain, my eyes filled with contempt. "Live here if you must," I said, my voice a low growl, a promise of retribution. "But harm my people again, and hell will welcome you first."
They froze, their faces etched with fear, their eyes widening with a dawning realization. They had underestimated me. They had mistaken my silence for weakness. They had forgotten that even a caged bird can still bite.
"Are you threatening them?" my father snapped, his voice laced with disbelief, his eyes burning with fury.
I smirked, a cold, humorless expression that sent a shiver down his spine. "I'm reminding them what happens when they forget their place," I said, my words a challenge, a declaration of war.
His jaw tightened, his fists clenched at his sides. But he said nothing more. He knew that he had lost control, that I was no longer the docile daughter he could manipulate.
He turned and led Caroline and her daughter out of the dining room, leaving silence behind, a heavy, oppressive silence that settled over the room like a shroud.
I knelt beside Nely, my heart aching with compassion. Her hands were shaking, tears streaming down her face, her body trembling with pain and fear. I gently took her hand, my touch offering what little comfort I could.
"No one will hurt you again," I promised, my voice filled with a fierce protectiveness. I wiped the blood away from her palm, my touch gentle and reassuring.
"Child…" she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion, her eyes filled with gratitude. "If not for you, I'd have left long ago."
"You will," I said quietly, meeting her gaze, my eyes shining with determination. "With me. Soon." It was a promise, a vow that I intended to keep, no matter the cost.
Her eyes widened, her expression shifting from gratitude to disbelief. "If we leave, your father will take everything—the Moore estate, your grandfather's legacy, your mother's trust fund—" she protested, her voice filled with concern, her eyes pleading with me to reconsider.
"He can try," I cut in, meeting her gaze, my eyes shining with defiance, a steely resolve hardening my features. "He won't succeed. I'll make sure of it." I would fight him, I would challenge him, I would take back what was rightfully mine.
Later that day, as I sat alone in my room, the silence was broken by the insistent buzz of my phone. Unknown number. My heart skipped a beat, a sense of foreboding washing over me.
'They plan to introduce you tonight. Their goal—your assets. Be careful.'
The message was short, cryptic, but it sent a shiver down my spine. My father was moving faster than I anticipated, his plans more elaborate than I had imagined. I was a pawn in his game, a commodity to be bought and sold.
"Dream on, Dad," I muttered under my breath, my lips curling into a bitter smile. I wouldn't be so easily manipulated. I would fight back, I would protect myself, and I would expose his lies.
Then came the knock, a sharp, authoritative rap on the door that sent a shiver down my spine. My father.
When I opened the door, he stood there, silhouetted against the light, wearing his favorite mask of authority, his face a cold, unreadable mask. He was a stranger, a man I no longer recognized.
"Prepare yourself. Casual attire," he said curtly, his voice devoid of any warmth or affection. "Don't embarrass me in front of tonight's guests." It was a command, not a request, delivered with the chilling certainty of someone who knew they held all the power.
I laughed bitterly, the sound echoing in the silent hallway, a hollow, empty sound that betrayed my inner turmoil. "For what occasion? Or should I say—what victim?" I asked, my voice dripping with sarcasm, challenging his authority, refusing to play his game.
He left without answering, turning and striding away without a backward glance, his silence a testament to his arrogance and his contempt. Typical. Cowardice dressed in arrogance, a familiar pattern that I had come to expect.
Night fell, cold and heavy, casting long shadows across the Moore estate, transforming the familiar landscape into a sinister realm of secrets and lies. I felt like a lamb being led to slaughter, a pawn in a game I didn't understand.
I stood before the mirror, my reflection staring back at me, a woman carved by scars and secrets. I wore a simple black blouse tucked into white pants, matched with white high-cut boots. A deliberate rebellion—elegant but defiant, a subtle act of defiance against the expectations he had placed upon me. It was a small act of control, a way to assert my own identity in a world that sought to define me.
My hair fell in soft waves, cascading down my back, a cascade of darkness that framed my face. The mirror reflected a woman who had learned to hide her pain behind a mask of strength, a woman who was ready to fight for her survival.
When I entered the dining hall, all conversation ceased, the room falling silent as every eye turned to me. My father rose slightly, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face, but I stopped him with a glance, my gaze unwavering, my presence commanding.
The table gleamed with silver and porcelain, a display of wealth and opulence that felt hollow and meaningless. Around it sat strangers—except one face that made my chest tighten in disdain, a face that represented everything I despised.
Alaeric Grayson.
My supposed fiancé, the man they had chosen for me, the pawn in their game of power and control. His dark eyes lingered on me with unreadable calm, but I could sense the arrogance beneath, the smug satisfaction of a man who believed he had already won.
My father cleared his throat, breaking the silence, his voice strained, his eyes warning me to behave. "Everyone, this is my daughter, Lysandra Moore."
Polite nods followed, but I gave none back. I refused to acknowledge their presence, to participate in their charade. I was there to disrupt, to challenge, to expose their lies.
Dad continued, his voice growing increasingly strained, "Grayson and I are finalizing a partnership tonight—a merger of legacy and future." He gestured towards Alaeric with a forced smile. "A union that will benefit us all."
Legacy and future. My mother's legacy. My future. Both for sale, bartered away for power and wealth. The thought made my stomach churn.
I smiled faintly, a predatory curve of my lips that promised trouble. I deliberately reached for my water glass, my fingers "accidentally" brushing against my spoon, sending it clattering to the floor. The metallic echo sliced through the air, shattering the forced civility, drawing all eyes to me.
"Oops," I murmured sweetly, feigning innocence, then turned to the Graysons, my eyes sparkling with a dangerous glint. "Casual attire for an engagement dinner, Father? You should've told me sooner. I would have worn something more…appropriate." My words dripped with sarcasm, a subtle jab at their carefully constructed facade of respectability.
Silence descended upon the room, thick and heavy.
Mr. Grayson blinked, his face flushed with surprise, his carefully controlled composure momentarily slipping. Mrs. Grayson stiffened, her lips pursed in disapproval, her eyes narrowing with suspicion. Alaeric's jaw clenched, his eyes hardening with a flicker of anger.
I pressed on, my tone dangerously calm, my words carefully chosen to inflict maximum damage. "Let me guess—you thought I'd be too naive to realize this was arranged without my consent? That I would simply accept my fate and play the dutiful daughter, a silent partner in your little scheme?"
My father's face turned red, his rage barely contained, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the table. "Lysandra—" he began, his voice a low growl, a warning rumble of the storm to come.
"Don't interrupt me, Mr. Brooke," I said, my voice dripping with venom, stripping him of his authority, reducing him to nothing more than a name. The gasps that rippled through the room were music to my ears.
"Or perhaps your son suggested this, to secure my inheritance? Grayson and Moore merging through deception, with me as the unsuspecting prize? A convenient way to acquire a vast fortune, wouldn't you say?" I continued, my gaze fixed on Alaeric, challenging him to deny the truth.
Mrs. Grayson's voice trembled, her carefully constructed facade of elegance crumbling under the weight of my accusations. "Miss Lysandra, that's a serious accusation."
I leaned forward, my eyes locking with Alaeric's, challenging him to meet my gaze, to deny the truth that hung in the air between us. "Is it? Then answer me—how does a man heal from paralysis in seven days, with no hospital record? How does a man who was confined to a wheelchair suddenly regain the ability to walk, seemingly overnight?"
Alaeric's throat bobbed, his eyes darting nervously around the table, avoiding my gaze. He said nothing, his silence a damning admission of guilt.
Mrs. Grayson forced a brittle smile, her eyes pleading with her son to remain silent, to salvage what was left of their carefully crafted image. "Private care. You wouldn't understand. The best doctors, the latest technology…it's all very discreet."
"Oh, I understand perfectly," I said, my voice laced with sarcasm, my eyes flashing with contempt. "You've been lied to, Mrs. Grayson. The question is—by whom?"
The air was thick with unease, the carefully constructed illusion shattered, the carefully orchestrated dinner reduced to a scene of chaos and suspicion. My father's rage trembled beneath his composure, threatening to erupt.
"This dinner is over," I said, rising from my chair, my movements fluid and graceful, my eyes sweeping over the faces around the table, their expressions a mixture of shock, anger, and fear. "Enjoy your lies, Father. I'm done with them."
And with that, I turned and walked out, leaving them to wallow in their deceit, to grapple with the wreckage of their shattered plans. I felt a surge of adrenaline, a thrill of rebellion, a sense of satisfaction at having disrupted their carefully constructed world.
Outside, the night air bit at my skin, a welcome contrast to the suffocating atmosphere of the dining hall. I barely made it to the garden when my phone vibrated again, the insistent buzz pulling me back to reality.
Unknown number. Same one. The sender of the cryptic messages, the voice in the shadows, the puppet master pulling the strings.
'Your beautiful day will soon end. Meet me at the old oak tree in the Moore gardens. Alone.'
The message glowed on the screen, pulsing like a warning, a dark promise of what was to come. My heart pounded in my chest, a frantic drumbeat against the silence.
I lifted my eyes toward the window—where shadows shifted behind the curtains.
Someone was watching me.